


Recognize

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Established Relationship, Inline with canon, Jealousy, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-06 23:19:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8773444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "If Shizuo didn’t know better, he would buy the whole of the image in front of him as the idiotic high school girl it appears to be, from the flirtatious tilt of that head to the tug of fingers at the hem of a rolled-up uniform skirt." Izaya has more than one way to go about gathering information, but Shizuo isn't fooled by appearances.





	

It’s the smell that gives Izaya away.

It always is. Shizuo can almost taste it in the air, like a shadow clinging to the clear warmth of the springtime breeze to weigh it down with the murmur of whispers, with the burden of plots that hiss in the wrong person’s ear at exactly the wrong time, everything as well-coordinated as if controlled by thousands of strings that all, inevitably, lead back to Izaya’s fingertips. Shizuo almost feels like he’s inhaling Izaya into his lungs with every breath he takes, as if each necessary draw of oxygen pulls Izaya’s fingerprints under his skin to press from the inside-out into his body. The thought is enough to set his teeth on edge, to hunch his shoulders into the expectation of anger that’s been slow-simmering all day until there’s only one thing that will sate the craving thrumming through the whole of Shizuo’s body like an electrical current.

It’s not hard to find him. Shizuo can trail that scent through the air of the city as if he’s following the tracks of Izaya’s feet laid into the pavement before him; it’s easy to track it, to follow the winding path it cuts across intersections and along overpasses and over the narrow sidewalks at the edge of major streets. Shizuo’s attention is wholly absorbed by it, his focus too intense to allow him to offer greetings even to Simon out in front of Russia Sushi or to give a response to Kadota’s wave from the doorway of a karaoke place; he turns aside from his friends, ignores the rush of the city around him, and follows the murmur of that scent in the air through the streets of the city to its source as if he’s being reeled in on a line. It’s only once he’s drawing towards the handful of people it leads to that he finally blinks his vision back into clarity to take in the scene in front of him.

It doesn’t make any sense, for the first moment. There’s a cluster of boys, high schoolers or maybe university-age students, three or four pressing in almost shoulder-to-shoulder until their bodies make a wall for Shizuo’s vision. None of them are the person he’s seeking, he can see at a glance, and so he dismisses them, scowling instead at the angle of their shoulders like he might be able to see straight through them if he frowns hard enough.

“Oh, _Taki_ ,” a girlish voice chirps, lilting itself into the beginning of a laugh that prickles almost-familiarity down Shizuo’s spine. “I don’t want to _join_ the gang! It’d be far too dangerous for a girl like me.”

“I’d take care of you, baby,” one of the boys declares, his voice straining over the low range he’s putting on for the sake of his audience. “C’mon, I can look after you better than he can.”

There’s another spill of laughter, bright and crystalline in the warmth of the air, and Shizuo’s eyes narrow, certainty setting itself across his shoulders even before he’s seen the face to go with that sound. “Can you really?” the voice says again, and then one of the boys takes a step sideways, angling for a better position, and Shizuo can see past the wall of the shoulders in front of him for a brief moment. Dark hair falls in a smooth line to frame a sharp jawline, reddened lips go soft on an uncertain pout, dark-lined eyes open wide in mock concern; if Shizuo didn’t know better, he would buy the whole of the image in front of him as the idiotic high school girl it appears to be, from the flirtatious tilt of that head to the tug of fingers at the hem of a rolled-up uniform skirt. But he can _taste_ that smell in the air, can feel shadows uncurling over his tongue and spreading out through the inside of his chest, and when he opens his mouth “ _Izaya-kun_ ” spills from his lips with the unstoppable force of a wave breaking over smooth sand.

Izaya looks up immediately, his head straightening from the put-on angle he’d adopted and his posture shifting to steady his weight over both feet. For a moment there’s no trace of the girlish uncertainty he had been playing at, just sudden, pinpoint attention on Shizuo in front of him. His audience doesn’t see the change; they’re turning to look to Shizuo too, fixing him with scowls of varying levels from threatening to absurd, but Shizuo doesn’t so much as glance at them.

“Izaya,” he says again. “I thought I told you to stay out of my city.”

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya lilts at him, his voice dripping syrupy-sweet with put-on femininity but his gaze as much a threat as it ever is. The red-stained soft of his mouth goes taut for a moment, his pout turning itself over into that brittle grin Shizuo is so much more familiar with. “I never expected to run into you like this.”

“Who’s this loser, Kanra-chan?” one of the boys asks, making a show of cracking his knuckles. “Want us to chase him off for you?”

“Shizu-chan’s an old classmate of mine,” Izaya purrs, pulling the words into a sultry implication they don’t deserve as he leans back against the edge of the bench behind him and angles one foot to cross behind the other. “He’s always been a little bit obsessed with me.”

“Huh,” the boy huffs, and steps away from the group to swagger towards Shizuo. “Don’t you know how to take a hint, man? Girl says she’s not into you, you should move on and get over it.” He cracks the knuckles of his other hand, tipping his head back to give the illusion of looking down his nose at Shizuo some inches above him. “We’ll _all_ help you move on, if you need a little push.”

“Dude,” one of the others says uncertainly, reaching out a hand towards his friend’s shoulder. “I think that’s--”

The other boy swings without giving any warning at all. His fist comes up from his side, his freshly-cracked knuckles closing to make a wall of his hand as he aims for Shizuo’s face -- and Shizuo shoves him away without looking, without even bothering with the trouble of closing his hand into a fist. It’s enough to hit the other’s shoulder with the flat of his palm, enough to knock him aside and off-balance, and if the boy goes skidding away by feet with a startled yelp Shizuo doesn’t have the attention to spare for him any more than for the “ _Heiwajima Shizuo_ ” the second boy gasps in breathless tones of true horror as Shizuo steps forward.

“ _Izaya_ ,” he says again, drawling the vowels long in his throat as he rolls his shoulders back, as he works his fingers in expectation of a real punch, in anticipation of the start of a fight worth his time. “You know I told you I’d kill you if you showed back up in my city?” His fingers fit against his palm, his thumb settles in to brace them in place. The boys are scattering around them but Shizuo doesn’t look at them any more than Izaya does; Shizuo’s not sure Izaya’s blinked since they made eye contact. “This must mean you’re really ready to die today, huh?”

“Not particularly,” Izaya says, his voice dropping from its lilting heights and into something closer to the range Shizuo recognizes from the halls of high school, from the other end of a phone line, from across a crowded intersection. “I’m actually more interested in living, thanks” and he’s moving, just like that, with the whip-quick impulse that always leaves Shizuo blinking the other’s afterimage from his eyes. It takes him a moment to regain his focus on Izaya, several feet away already as he looks back over his shoulder to blow a kiss at Shizuo standing still, and Shizuo can feel the restraint that has been coiling tight in him all morning snap like a rubber band drawn too-tight by the purse of Izaya’s painted lips. He growls fury, feeling the heat of it resonate through the whole of his body like thunder, and Izaya laughs in his own voice and turns to retreat as Shizuo digs his shoes into the ground and kicks off into a dead sprint after him.

The chase is shorter than it usually is. Izaya seems to have no compunctions about running in a skirt, and the dark of his wig doesn’t so much as shift over the handful of blocks Shizuo pursues him; but his steps are unsteady, his footing less than ideal thanks to the few inches of heels on the shoes he’s wearing, and evidentially he’s unwilling to attempt his usual parkour with his balance so much more precarious than it usually is. When he turns down an alley Shizuo follows hard on his heels, growling heat past his teeth in anticipation of victory, and by the time he’s around the corner Izaya has reached the chain-link fence that turns the gap between the buildings on either side of them into a dead-end, has caught his fingers into the lattice of the metal and is looking up as if to gauge the height. For a moment his weight rocks forward, like he’s thinking of making the attempt even with the disadvantage of his current attire; but then Shizuo hisses “ _Izaya_ ,” and Izaya turns to look at him, and Shizuo can see the consideration of further retreat flicker and fade into the sparking heat of confrontation.

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya purrs, twisting to press his shoulders to the fence without letting his hold on the links go. The motion angles his arm up over his head, strains tension against the inside line of his wrist, and tips the whole of his body into a sinuous curve, the motion of it familiar even if the curves under his loose shirt are not. “I didn’t think I’d have the pleasure of your company today.”

“What are you _doing_ here?” Shizuo demands, ignoring the flirtatious lilt of Izaya’s voice in favor of growling the direct challenge of the question as he strides in closer. His hand lands hard against the fence next to Izaya’s head, but the other doesn’t so much as blink at the rattle of force that runs through the metal behind him. “I told you to stay out of Ikebukuro.” He spares a glance downward for the skirt riding high on Izaya’s thighs, for the long line of white stockings rising nearly to its hem; with the lift of the heels Izaya’s legs look longer than usual, as if the cling of the fabric to his skin has added more inches than even the shoes can account for. “What the _fuck_ are you wearing?”

“Do you like it?” Izaya asks. “I spent all morning getting dolled up to go out on the town. I thought you might not object to _Kanra-chan_ \--” as his voice jumps high and girlish on the name, “--the same way you do to Izaya-kun.”

“It’s no different,” Shizuo tells him, hissing the words down to Izaya in front of him. Izaya’s head is tipped back against the fence behind him; there are a few long strands of his wig caught against the links and tangling at the back of his head. His lips look softer with the dark of the lipstick coating them. “You still smell like the flea you are.”

“Ah well,” Izaya says, lifting a shoulder as if Shizuo’s rejection is of no importance at all. “My sources certainly seemed to appreciate it, anyway, and it’s their opinion I’m more concerned with.”

“Your _sources_?” Shizuo growls. “You mean those kids?” He reaches for Izaya’s shirt, closing his grip into a fist on the fabric and dragging to pull Izaya up onto his tiptoes. “What the _hell_ are you plotting now?”

“Nothing,” Izaya says, his voice as faux-innocent as all the rest of his appearance. “Why do you always assume the worst of me, Shizu-chan? Maybe I was just trying to keep up with the goings-on in the city, did you ever consider that?”

“Bullshit,” Shizuo says, punctuating with a shake at the fistful of fabric he’s made of the front of Izaya’s shirt. “You wouldn’t have to be dressed like _this_ to get info about the city.”

“That’s not quite true,” Izaya tells him. “You’re underestimating how far a little flirtation goes with desperate high school boys.” Shizuo growls, sound spilling from him in a wordless hiss of frustration as he shoves Izaya harder against the fence, and Izaya’s breath breaks into a giggling laugh. “What’s wrong, Shizu-chan, are you jealous?”

“ _What?_ ” Shizuo spits. “I’m not _jealous_.”

“Sure you aren’t,” Izaya purrs. His mouth is scant inches from Shizuo’s; Shizuo can see the shift of those scarlet lips around the shape of each word, can see pouting suggestion formed around every vowel. Izaya’s eyes look brighter against the dark of the eyeliner shadowing the feathery curve of his lashes; Shizuo can taste Izaya’s scent against his tongue with every inhale he takes. “You don’t care if I sell myself for a few juicy tidbits, do you, Shizu-chan?”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Shizuo tells him, and leans in to crush his mouth against the painted red of Izaya’s. Izaya is smiling even as he leans in, the curve of his lips promising that Shizuo is playing right into his expectations, but Shizuo can’t help it; he can’t hold himself back when his heart is pounding in his chest like it is and Izaya is turning his head up in such patent invitation. Izaya tastes strange, the lipstick at his mouth sweet and sticky as it clings to Shizuo’s lips; Shizuo growls irritation at the feel of it and catches Izaya’s lip between his teeth to bite past the weight of the makeup and down to the familiarity of the skin underneath. Izaya makes a sound against Shizuo’s mouth, a high whimper of put-on heat as much a show as all the rest of him; Shizuo wishes it didn’t feel so much like flame coming alight in his veins.

“Be _gentle_ , Shizu-chan,” Izaya gasps as he pulls free of Shizuo’s teeth at his lip and draws back enough to frame his breathing around the shape of words. His mouth is drawn to a pout under the smeared lipstick, his voice caught in that high falsetto he used with the high schoolers, as if his protest has any force behind it, as if his eyes aren’t half-lidded and his hips aren’t rocking forward to grind against Shizuo’s thigh between his own. “I’m a delicate girl, don’t you think you should have a little more respect for my fragility?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Shizuo says, and shoves hard against Izaya’s shoulder to pin him back to the fence while he ducks his head to resume his attack on the other’s mouth. Izaya groans as Shizuo licks past his lips and into his mouth, the sound still high and breathless as he never sounds sincerely, and still Shizuo feels the heat of it aching low in his stomach and flushing his cock harder inside his slacks. He eases his grip from the chainlink fence -- the metal creaks protest to his hold, bent out-of-shape by the force of his fingers -- and reaches down instead to shove his fingers up against the top edge of Izaya’s stockings and under the hem of the other’s skirt.

“ _Ah_ ,” Izaya pants, “ _gently,_ Shizu-chan” but he’s hard before Shizuo palms roughly against him, his cock swelling to strain against the thin fabric of the panties he’s wearing under the skirt. The feeling makes Shizuo growl, makes his shoulders tip forward in anticipation of more, and when he moves again it’s with intention, with enough force behind the shove of his palm to drag the silky material hard over Izaya’s length. Izaya hisses reaction, his voice teetering at the edge of breaking down to his normal range, and his hips jerk forward without hesitation, his body arching to meet the force of Shizuo’s palm. Shizuo tenses his fingers, rubbing harder to grind more sensation flaring into Izaya’s veins, and Izaya shudders against the fence, his fingers caught through the links over his head flexing as he tries to hold himself up.

“Shizu-chan,” he starts, his voice whining in the back of his throat. “If you want…” He trails off, his voice fading to silence as if with speechlessness Shizuo has never known him to have, but his fingers are speaking for him: he’s reaching for the bottom edge of his shirt, lifting by inches to bare his stomach for Shizuo’s gaze. Shizuo can see the tension fluttering against the skin, can see the shift of muscle flexing involuntarily in response to the weight of his hand under the other’s skirt; and then Izaya tugs the shirt high off his chest, high enough that Shizuo can see an edge of dark lace pressing close against the pale of the other’s skin.

“There’s lube in my bra,” Izaya says, purring the words into so much suggestion that Shizuo doesn’t realize, for a moment, that the other is speaking in his usual tone. He blinks hard, pulling his attention up from that invitation of lace to Izaya’s face, only to find Izaya gazing at him from under the darkness of those shadowed lashes and the fall of the dark fringe of his wig. When he speaks his voice is high and lilting again, drawling the syllables into the pattern of a high school girl’s chirping speech instead of his own mocking tone. “You can feel me up if you want, Shizu-chan.”

“Oh my god,” Shizuo groans, caught somewhere between irritation and arousal and unsure which is winning. “Shut _up_ ” but he’s pulling his hand out from under Izaya’s skirt anyway, reaching up to run his fingers up the shuddering line of the other’s stomach and to the edge of the promised bra. Izaya huffs a breath, the sound falling to the shape of a laugh at his lips, and Shizuo pushes, and his fingers slide up and under the elastic of the clothing. Lace catches at his wrist, elastic drags over his skin, and under his palm Izaya arches into his touch, his heart pounding so hard Shizuo can feel the rhythm against the weight of his hand.

“Oh, _Shizu-chan_ ,” Izaya whimpers, his voice skipping up into a range Shizuo didn’t know the other was able to hit. “There’s no need to be rough.”

“I fucking _hate_ you,” Shizuo informs him, and Izaya’s voice cracks into a laugh before Shizuo shoves up hard and closes his fingers against a nipple flushed hard with heat. Izaya hisses at the pressure alone, his adopted falsetto shivering to nothing, and when Shizuo tugs against the sensitive skin his whole body shudders, his breath rushing out of him in a groan that runs the heat of recognition all through Shizuo’s body.

“Fuck,” Izaya says, letting his hold on his shirt go to grab at Shizuo’s shoulder instead, “ _Gently_ ” but Shizuo isn’t listening to him, not when every flex of his fingers plucks Izaya’s body to arching tautness against his own. He abandons his hold on the shoulder of the other’s shirt, reaching to fumble down the neckline instead; there’s soft against his touch, the cushioning of whatever Izaya has used to stuff the bra, and there, tucked into the facade of cleavage, the slick curve of the bottle Shizuo’s looking for.

“Is that what you do this for?” he demands, punctuating the words with a last twist of his fingers at Izaya’s nipple before he slides his hand free so he can open the bottle and spill liquid over his fingers. Izaya looks debauched already; the seam of his shirt is caught under the edge of his off-center bra, his skirt is rumpled high against his thighs. Whatever lipstick he was wearing is gone, caught by Shizuo’s tongue and Shizuo’s lips to faded pink around his mouth. His wig is still on, but it’s tangled with the fence behind him, the strands staticky and clinging to the metal; even his eyes are lacking some measure of focus, his gaze too shadowed-over to be entirely coherent. “Get dressed up so you can lure someone to a dark corner and let them fuck you in exchange for some stupid _gossip_?”

“Sure,” Izaya says, breathless and heavy-eyed but speaking in his own voice, the one with the high peaks and low purr that Shizuo knows as well as he knows the sound of his own. “What are _you_ going to give me if I let you use me?”

“ _If_ ,” Shizuo repeats, growling the word to a mockery, and reaches to slide his slick fingers against the hot inside of Izaya’s thighs. Izaya tips his knees open to the friction, shifting his feet apart by an inch to give Shizuo a better angle, and Shizuo rumbles through an exhale that feels like a purr and draws his hand up to palm against the weight of Izaya’s balls pressing close against the thin of his panties. The fabric is too thin, the cut of the cloth too near to quite hold everything as it was intended to; Shizuo’s fingers drag over hot skin, his touch pulls a quiver out along Izaya’s spine, and he grins vicious satisfaction as he hooks his thumb under the fabric and trails his way back to the curve of the other’s ass. “Don’t act all coy with me.”

“Shizu-chan, you’re so _mean_ ,” Izaya teases, his voice skipping up to that high range again as he drags his lips down into the damp curve of a pout. “I let you manhandle me for your own satisfaction and you--” and his words break off, cutting to a sudden hiss of reaction as Shizuo thrusts a slick finger past the other’s entrance and into the grip of his body. Izaya arches to the force, his legs flexing to lift him onto tiptoe against the pressure, and Shizuo gasps in a desperate attempt to fill his lungs with oxygen, to find clarity of thought from the heat that seizes him every time he first pushes into Izaya.

“Don’t do that,” he snaps, and thrusts in deeper with a sharp twist of his wrist to underscore the motion. Izaya’s hand seizes tight at his shoulder, Izaya whimpers against the movement, but Shizuo can feel the other clenching around his touch, can feel the heat of Izaya easing to his movement as quickly as he urges it. “Stop _pretending_.” He draws back, thrusts in again, and Izaya groans with it this time, his head tipping back to make a clean line of his throat. Shizuo ducks in to take the temptation of the pale skin, the invitation too much for him to ignore, and when he catches his teeth against the flutter of Izaya’s pulse he doesn’t know if it’s that pressure or the slide of his touch that pulls the whine of response loose from Izaya’s chest.

“I’m not,” Izaya gasps, his voice too-loud and still clinging to the edges of adopted heights in his throat. “You’re so rough, Shizu-chan, you know you don’t-- _ah_ ,” as Shizuo pushes another finger into him, overcoming the resistance of Izaya’s body with straightforward force to urge the slick of his touch into the other. Izaya whines as Shizuo pushes deeper, the noise sounding very nearly sincere; but when he shifts it’s to balance his unsteady weight on one foot so he can hook his other leg up and around Shizuo’s hip. The heel of his shoe digs in hard against the dip of Shizuo’s back; the bruising weight of it makes Shizuo hiss, makes him thrust the harder with his fingers, and Izaya shudders and moans in a way that has nothing of his mock protest on the sound. It makes Shizuo growl satisfaction, makes him drive in the harder, and Izaya arches against the support of the fence at his back, the shift of his shoulders making the metal rattle as Shizuo sets a rhythm created of vicious speed.

“Fuck,” Izaya whines, his voice plaintive but his body arching forward, the whole flex of his leg and spine and shoulders curving him into a straining wave reaching itself towards the force of Shizuo’s fingers. “It’s a good thing I’m used to your violence, you know, a real girlfriend would leave you if you treated her like this.”

“You’re not,” Shizuo tells him, not sure what he’s saying: _you’re not a girl, you’re not my girlfriend, you’re not leaving_. They’re all equally true in any case; Izaya might still be wearing that stupid wig, might still have his eyes darkened with a line of shadow more than what his lashes naturally carry, but his open mouth looks like his own again as he gasps for breath, and the shuddering ripples of reaction that are running through him are utterly familiar, put-on clothing or no. Shizuo pushes harder with his fingers, sinking the whole length of them as far inside Izaya as he can reach, and Izaya groans with the force, his head tipping back to curve a smooth line of the length of his throat. Shizuo shoves closer, pinning Izaya hard against the fence behind him with the weight of his body, and when he draws his fingers back he offers the weight of his mouth instead, catching his lips and teeth against the edge of the rise in Izaya’s throat that thrums his voice down over his natural range, when he’s not chirping into the put-on falsetto he’s been giving today. Izaya whimpers again, his Adam’s apple shifting under Shizuo’s lips, and when he moves it’s to flex his leg hard against Shizuo’s hip, to dig the edge of his shoe in against the other’s back as if to urge him closer.

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls against the other’s skin, as if he’s speaking to Izaya’s body instead of his mind. “I’m working on it.” He is, too; he’s pulling at the front of his slacks, trying to twist the button loose one-handed while he digs bruises into Izaya’s skin in the shape of his mouth. The fabric is too taut against itself for him to manage it with just one hand; he has to shove the bottle still clutched in his grip into his pocket to free his fingers to manage the task between them both. It’s easy from there, the button comes open and the zipper drags down almost at once, and then Shizuo is shoving his slacks and boxers down off his hips to free the aching heat of his cock and Izaya is panting over him, his leg straining at Shizuo’s hip as if his own strength will be enough to force the other closer, as if the urging of his fingers at Shizuo’s shoulder can somehow make the other move faster than he already is.

“Yes, yes, _yes_ ,” he’s saying, so fast and breathless Shizuo can’t tell if it’s put-on or not and doesn’t know that he cares about the distinction anymore. “Shizu-chan, yes, please, come on, hurry _up_ ” even as Shizuo strokes the slick across his palm up over his length and presses in close against Izaya’s hips. For a moment he’s pressing hard against the fall of the other’s skirt, pinning the fabric between the edge of his hip and the flushed heat of Izaya’s cock on the other side, and Izaya shudders through the whole of his body, the tremor jolting through him to stall still against the barrier of Shizuo against him. He still has his leg around the other’s hip, is still pulling like he means to drag Shizuo to him by force; Shizuo reaches down between them, closing his fingers against the base of his cock to steady himself with one hand and reaching down farther with the other to touch against the inside of Izaya’s leg still on the ground. The other’s thigh is trembling, Shizuo can feel the motion thrumming under his touch; his fingertips catch the top of the stocking clinging to Izaya’s skin and force it down by a half-inch before he drags his touch down farther, to the inside angle of the other’s knee. His fingers slide under the dip of the joint, his touch weighting hard against the sensitive soft of the skin, and while Izaya is still shivering with the ticklish friction of it Shizuo grips, and pulls, and draws the other’s leg up and off the ground entirely. Izaya yelps some kind of half-formed protest, reaching to seize desperately at Shizuo’s shoulders to catch himself, but Shizuo doesn’t let him drop, just pulls him up higher by inches so he can bring their bodies into alignment.

“Oh fuck,” Izaya gasps. “Shizu-chan.”

“Be quiet,” Shizuo tells him, and rocks his whole body forward to press close against the inside line of Izaya’s spread-open thighs. There’s a shudder of tension in Izaya’s body, a growl of force from Shizuo; and then he’s thrusting forward, and Izaya’s groaning, and Shizuo’s cock is sliding deep into him on the first rough motion. There’s a catch of silky fabric against him, the friction dragging against his shaft as he moves; Shizuo grabs at it with a hiss, dragging hard to force the panties aside so he can move uninterrupted. Izaya’s fingers are flexing at Shizuo’s shoulder, his leg is trembling in Shizuo’s hold, but his body is tight, the whole of him gripping hard against Shizuo as the other thrusts farther into him, and when Shizuo groans it has more satisfaction than frustration on the sound.

“Fuck you,” he says, growling the words to the line of Izaya’s neck so he can feel the way his teeth catch against the thrum of sound in the other’s throat, the way Izaya’s moaning inhales run up against the shape of Shizuo’s words to mark his skin with the heat of friction. “I told you not to come around here.” He’s moving faster, finding a rough rhythm to the thrust of his hips, and Izaya is opening to the force, his legs angling wider as his heel digs in hard against Shizuo’s spine. “You thought I wouldn’t recognize you in some stupid outfit?”

“I did,” Izaya says, sounding breathless and shaky as Shizuo moves into him, like the other’s movements are knocking all the ordinary rhythms of his existence out-of-balance. “I should have known you would be able to find me.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Shizuo snaps, and lifts his head to glare at Izaya’s face. Izaya’s staring at him, his eyes heavy and half-lidded and his mouth open to gasp through each of Shizuo’s thrusts into him; his wig is still shadowing his face into unfamiliarity, but the smell of his skin, the taste of his mouth, even the hectic pace of his breathing are so recognizable Shizuo can feel them like an infection in his veins, like the strain of magnetism has tangled itself inextricably around the very beat of his heart to leave him breathless and desperate. “You’re still _you_.”

Izaya’s mouth drags into a smile, his voice breaks onto a laugh; the fringe of his wig is still shadowing his eyes so Shizuo can’t see them clearly, but his throat is tense on amusement, Shizuo can feel the strain of it all through the other’s body. He scowls at the dark hair in front of Izaya’s face, at the unfamiliar cut and artificial smell of it, and when he lifts his hand from between their bodies it’s to grab at a handful of the strands, to shove his fingers carelessly into the weight of the dark falling over Izaya’s face.

“As if this would be enough to hide you from me,” he says, and pushes hard enough to wrench Izaya’s head back before the wig slides free of the other’s hair. Izaya hisses at the force, offering some half-formed protest to the action, but Shizuo doesn’t care because the wig is sliding back and off Izaya’s head, the shift of its weight baring the dark of Izaya’s own hair from underneath it. The strands are damp against Izaya’s scalp, dragged back to lie close against his head instead of falling over his face, but the glossy shine of them is the right shade, this time, and the right length, and when Shizuo leans in to press his nose against the locks they have the right smell, too, the strands are clinging to the same strange, foreign taste that weights Izaya’s skin like perfume. He breathes in hard against the other’s hair, feels the shadowy tang of Izaya filling his lungs, and when he lets his hold on the wig go it’s to wind his fingers into Izaya’s own hair instead, to fist a hold onto the sweat-damp dark and drag the other’s head back and sideways.

“I _always_ find you,” he growls, and then he’s ducking his head to crush his mouth to Izaya’s, to bruise the weight of his teeth into the soft part of the other’s lips on the heat of his breathing. Izaya whimpers against Shizuo’s tongue, shudders at the force of the other’s touch, but his hand at Shizuo’s shoulder is sliding sideways, his arm is looping around the other’s neck to brace himself steady. Shizuo digs his teeth in close, slicks his tongue once over the hot inside of Izaya’s mouth; and then he pulls back and away, gasping for air as he focuses on the rough thrust of his hips up and into the other’s body.

“I’m glad,” Izaya pants, his fingers clutching at Shizuo’s neck as his leg in the other’s hold flexes, as his thigh trembles with the effort of holding the open position Shizuo has him in. “I can always count on you, Shizu-chan.” He sounds like himself, looks like himself; the eyeliner darkening his lashes does nothing to disguise his features, only shadows his expression into something somehow more himself than he has ever been before. Shizuo stares at the weight of that darkness, at the flutter and dip of Izaya’s lashes as Shizuo moves into him, and it’s like he can see the pleasure building in the other’s body in the crease at Izaya’s forehead, in the tension at his mouth, in the strain of his throat. His eyes are almost entirely closed, now, he’s barely managing to maintain his focus on Shizuo’s face; Shizuo can hear every gasp of breathing Izaya takes, can see the flush of arousal staining the other’s cheeks to crimson.

“Fuck you, Izaya-kun,” he says, but the words growl into more of a suggestion than a threat, and he’s moving faster, rattling the fence behind Izaya’s shoulders with every driving thrust he takes into the grip of the other’s body. “I told you the next time you come to my city I’ll kill you.”

Izaya’s mouth twists, catching on the suggestion of a grin for just a moment. “Strange ideas you have about murder,” he says, like the start of a taunt forming over his tongue; but then Shizuo snaps his hips forward, and his mouth falls open on the heat of a moan instead, and Shizuo can feel the strain of anticipation building at the base of his own spine as Izaya’s body tightens around him.

“Shizu-chan,” Izaya manages, pulling the syllables so sing-songy Shizuo thinks he might be trying for that high girlish register he had to begin with; but Shizuo just fucks hard into him, growling heat in the back of his throat, and Izaya jolts with the force, his throat tensing so his next “ _Shizu-chan_ ” comes out low and desperate and _himself_. His leg around Shizuo tightens, his thigh under Shizuo’s fingertips is shaking helplessly; Shizuo is panting, is gasping for breath, but Izaya is trembling through tiny, shallow inhales like he can’t remember how to take a full breath at all. His foot flexes, his shoe sliding free to fall to the ground under them as he arches against the fence, as his head angles back against the weight of Shizuo’s grip on his hair; and then he gasps, and moans, and shudders into a long, convulsive tremor of heat as his cock twitches hard against Shizuo’s body. Shizuo can feel the fabric of Izaya’s skirt going damp, can feel the wet soaking into the loose edges of his shirt falling around his hips; but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t so much as slow the pace of his thrusts as Izaya jerks and comes against him. The other is clenching around him, his body seizing reflexive tension against Shizuo’s cock as it moves inside him, and Shizuo can’t find his breath for how superheated the air around him has gone. He’s pushing Izaya’s leg higher, wider, weighting his body closer against Izaya’s pinned to the fence; he can feel the unfamiliar curves of the other’s bra crushing against his chest, the illusion of breasts strange and foreign against him, but when he breathes in Izaya smells the same, and when he blinks the heat-haze from his eyes Izaya looks the same, with the lipstick pressed off the open part of his lips and his rumpled hair freed from the weight of the wig that had been over it. His eyes are open but his gaze is unfocused, the languid heat of his expression is tremoring through aftershocks Shizuo can see clearly across his features, and the whole line of his throat is marked over with the print of Shizuo’s mouth, with the memory of Shizuo’s teeth bruising shadows into the skin. He looks undone, debauched and overheated and helpless to the friction, and Shizuo can feel the thought of that run through the whole of his body as electricity, can feel it tighten into his balls and strain up his spine with a shudder like inevitability given form.

“Fuck,” he groans, feeling the sound more than hearing it as his heartbeat jumps loud and echoing in his ears. “ _Izaya_ ” and he’s coming, his cock is pulsing long shudders of heat deep into Izaya’s body and his throat is opening up over a groan, over a growl of heat too great to take the form of words. His vision is hazy, his attention fractured; there’s just Izaya at his lips, and Izaya under his hands, and Izaya’s body tight and tensing around him to draw satisfaction trembling through the whole of his body.

It takes Shizuo several seconds to collect himself even after the rush of his orgasm fades from its all-consuming presence in his thoughts. He’s still panting for air, his breathing still catching to the edge of frantic haste in his throat, and he’s shakier than he realized he was, he can feel his body trembling with the effort of his recent activity. Izaya’s still clutching to him, his hold hasn’t eased at all even as the shudders of pleasure in him gave way to exhausted stillness; Shizuo has to make a conscious decision to extricate himself, and then another effort just to figure out how to disentangle their bodies. He draws free of Izaya, pulls away from the damp catching their clothes together; Izaya’s stockinged foot lands on the ground, his height diminished by inches by the loss of his shoe, and it’s only then that he eases the hold he has on Shizuo’s neck and pulls away. Shizuo steps back as Izaya lets him go to take his own weight, looking down and taking heat-dizzy stock of the mess he’s made of his clothes; his shirt is stained, his slacks undone and caught around his thighs, the sleek black of the fabric wrinkled past any hope of saving. He grimaces at the mess, takes a few minutes to dress himself again and smooth the pants as best he can, and by the time he looks back up Izaya has tugged his shirt back into place and gotten his wig back over the dark of his hair. His skirt is several inches longer -- he’s unrolled the waistband to let it out, and now it falls nearly to his knees, the change in length enough to disguise the damp spot at the front of it and to cover the top of his stockings left uneven by the push of Shizuo’s fingers. Shizuo looks at the fall of the fabric, feeling a strange purr of satisfaction at the way the length hides the smooth line of Izaya’s thighs from general view; he’s still staring when Izaya bends over to tug his dropped shoe back into place. His shirt falls loose off his collarbones, dipping open to offer a suggestive glimpse of lace and silk, and Shizuo remembers all at once about the weight of the bottle straining at the pocket of his slacks.

“Here,” he says, reaching to fumble the lube out of his pocket so he can offer it back to Izaya. “This is yours.”

Izaya waves a hand without lifting his head from the attention he’s giving to the fit of his foot inside his shoe. “It’s fine,” he says, dismissing Shizuo’s offer without even glancing up. “I won’t need it again today. I’m not so tacky I’d let someone else fuck me when I’m sticky with your come.” He does look up at Shizuo’s hiss of response, his mouth twisting onto a smirk from under the shadow of his hair; when he straightens it’s in a smoothly elegant curve, when he tosses his hair back from his face the motion looks more natural than practiced. He steps past Shizuo smoothly, sidestepping the chance of contact as he moves, and Shizuo is left to turn on his heel to scowl at Izaya’s retreating form. “I’ll go straight home without causing any more trouble today, Shizu-chan, don’t worry your pretty little head about me.”

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Shizuo asks, lifting the bottle in his hand for Izaya’s uncaring shoulders.

“Keep it,” Izaya says, and tips his head to smile back over his shoulder. “It’s for you, anyway.” And then he’s turning, and rounding the corner to the street, and he’s gone before Shizuo can ask what he meant. Shizuo scowls after him, frustration hot against the inside of his chest; it’s not until Izaya has vanished that he thinks to look down at the bottle in his hand.

It’s plain plastic, clear to let Shizuo see the slick spill of the liquid inside. The brand label has been peeled off and wiped clean; there’s no trace of the original producer left against the container. But there’s a mark against the side anyway, words written in black ink and a familiar hand: _For Shizu-chan_ , followed by a heart drawn with the same offhand grace of Izaya’s steps as he walked away and out of sight.

Shizuo stares at the bottle for a long time, jealousy and frustration running up against the text on the plastic and breaking apart into heat and a strange, soft pressure against the inside of his chest. Then he closes his fingers over the words, and slides the bottle back into his pocket, and steps forward and out of the alley.

Izaya’s nowhere in sight, but that doesn’t stop the smile tugging at the corner of Shizuo’s mouth.


End file.
